Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall by Charles Major

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Dorothy well knew there was no help for John if her father were of the
queen's council. She insisted upon seeing the queen, but was rudely
repulsed. By the time she again reached her room full consciousness had
returned, and agony such as she had never before dreamed of overwhelmed
her soul. Many of us have felt the same sort of pain when awakened
suddenly to the fact that words we have spoken easily may not, by our
utmost efforts, be recalled, though we would gladly give our life itself
to have them back. If suffering can atone for sin, Dorothy bought her
indulgence within one hour after sinning. But suffering cannot atone for
sin; it is only a part of it--the result.

"Arise, Madge, and dress," said Dorothy, gently. "I have made a terrible
mistake. I have committed a frightful crime. I have betrayed John to
death. Ah, help me, Madge, if you can. Pray God to help me. He will listen
to you. I fear to pray to Him. He would turn my prayers to curses. I am
lost." She fell for a moment upon the bed and placed her head on Madge's
breast murmuring, "If I could but die."

"All may turn out better than it now appears," said Madge. "Quiet yourself
and let us consider what may be done to arrest the evil of your--your
act."

"Nothing can be done, nothing," wailed Dorothy, as she arose from the bed
and began to dress. "Please arise, Madge, and dress yourself. Here are
your garments and your gown."

They hastily dressed without speaking, and Dorothy began again to pace the
floor.

"He will die hating me," said Dorothy. "If he could live I willingly would
give him to the--the Scottish woman. Then I could die and my suffering
would cease. I must have been mad when I went to the queen. He trusted me
with his honor and his life, and I, traitress that I am, have betrayed
both. Ah, well, when he dies I also shall die. There is comfort at least
in that thought. How helpless I am."

She could not weep. It seemed as if there were not a tear in her. All was
hard, dry, burning agony. She again fell upon the bed and moaned piteously
for a little time, wringing her hands and uttering frantic ejaculatory
prayers for help.

"My mind seems to have forsaken me," she said hoarsely to Madge. "I cannot
think. What noise is that?"

She paused and listened for a moment. Then she went to the north window
and opened the casement.

"The yeoman guards from Bakewell are coming," she said. "I recognize them
by the light of their flambeaux. They are entering the gate at the
dove-cote."

A part of the queen's guard had been quartered in the village of Bakewell.

Dorothy stood at the window for a moment and said: "The other guards are
here under our window and are ready to march to Rutland. There is Lord
Cecil, and Sir William St. Loe, and Malcolm, and there is my father. Now
they are off to meet the other yeomen at the dove-cote. The stable boys
are lighting their torches and flambeaux. They are going to murder John,
and I have sent them."

Dorothy covered her face with her hands and slowly walked to and fro
across the room.

"Call Malcolm," said Madge. "Perhaps he can help us. Lead me to the
window, Dorothy, and I will call him." Dorothy led Madge to the window,
and above the din of arms I heard her soft voice calling, "Malcolm,
Malcolm."

The order to march had been given before Madge called, but I sought Sir
William and told him I would return to the Hall to get another sword and
would soon overtake him on the road to Rutland.

I then hastened to Dorothy's room. I was ignorant of the means whereby
Elizabeth had learned of Mary's presence at Rutland. The queen had told no
one how the information reached her. The fact that Mary was in England was
all sufficient for Cecil, and he proceeded to execute the order Elizabeth
had given for Mary's arrest, without asking or desiring any explanation.
I, of course, was in great distress for John's sake, since I knew that he
would be attainted of treason. I had sought in vain some plan whereby I
might help him, but found none. I, myself, being a Scottish refugee,
occupied no safe position, and my slightest act toward helping John or
Mary would be construed against me.

When I entered Dorothy's room, she ran to me and said: "Can you help me,
Malcolm? Can you help me save him from this terrible evil which I have
brought upon him?"

"How did you bring the evil upon him?" I asked, in astonishment. "It was
not your fault that he brought Mary Stuart to--"

"No, no," she answered; "but I told the queen she was at Rutland."

"You told the queen?" I exclaimed, unwilling to believe my ears. "You
told--How--why--why did you tell her?"

"I do not know why I told her," she replied. "I was mad with--with
jealousy. You warned me against it, but I did not heed you. Jennie Faxton
told me that she saw John and--but all that does not matter now. I will
tell you hereafter if I live. What we must now do is to save him--to save
him if we can. Try to devise some plan. Think--think, Malcolm."

My first thought was to ride to Rutland Castle and give the alarm. Sir
George would lead the yeomen thither by the shortest route--the road by
way of Rowsley. There was another route leading up the Lathkil through the
dale, and thence by a road turning southward to Rutland. That road was
longer by a league than the one Sir George would take, but I could put my
horse to his greatest speed, and I might be able to reach the castle in
time to enable John and Mary to escape. I considered the question a
moment. My own life certainly would pay the forfeit in case of failure;
but my love for John and, I confess it with shame, the memory of my old
tenderness for Mary impelled me to take the risk. I explained the plan
upon which I was thinking, and told them of my determination. When I did
so, Madge grasped me by the arm to detain me, and Dorothy fell upon her
knees and kissed my hand.

I said, "I must start at once; for, ride as I may, I fear the yeomen will
reach Rutland gates before I can get there."

"But If the guards should be at the gates when you arrive, or if you
should be missed by Cecil, you, a Scottish refugee and a friend of Queen
Mary, would be suspected of treason, and you would lose your life," said
Madge, who was filled with alarm for my sake.

"That is true," I replied; "but I can think of no other way whereby John
can possibly be saved."

Dorothy stood for a moment in deep thought, and said:--

"I will ride to Rutland by way of Lathkil Dale--I will ride in place of
you, Malcolm. It is my duty and my privilege to do this if I can."

I saw the truth of her words, and felt that since Dorothy had wrought the
evil, it was clearly her duty to remedy it if she could. If she should
fail, no evil consequences would fall upon her. If I should fail, it would
cost me my life; and while I desired to save John, still I wished to save
myself. Though my conduct may not have been chivalric, still I was willing
that Dorothy should go in my place, and I told her so. I offered to ride
with her as far as a certain cross-road a league distant from Rutland
Castle. There I would leave her, and go across the country to meet the
yeomen on the road they had taken. I could join them before they reached
Rutland, and my absence during the earlier portion of the march would not
be remarked, or if noticed it could easily be explained.

This plan was agreed upon, and after the guards had passed out at
Dove-cote Gate and were well down toward Rowsley, I rode out from the
Hall, and waited for Dorothy at an appointed spot near Overhaddon.

Immediately after my departure Dolcy was saddled, and soon Dorothy rode
furiously up to me. Away we sped, Dorothy and I, by Yulegrave church, down
into the dale, and up the river. Never shall I forget that mad ride. Heavy
rains had recently fallen, and the road in places was almost impassable.
The rivers were in flood, but when Dorothy and I reached the ford, the
girl did not stop to consider the danger ahead of her. I heard her
whisper, "On, Dolcy, on," and I heard the sharp "whisp" of the whip as she
struck the trembling, fearful mare, and urged her into the dark flood.
Dolcy hesitated, but Dorothy struck her again and again with the whip and
softly cried, "On, Dolcy, on." Then mare and rider plunged into the
swollen river, and I, of course, followed them. The water was so deep that
our horses were compelled to swim, and when we reached the opposite side
of the river we had drifted with the current a distance of at least three
hundred yards below the road. We climbed the cliff by a sheep path. How
Dorothy did it I do not know; and how I succeeded in following her I know
even less. When we reached the top of the cliff, Dorothy started off at
full gallop, leading the way, and again I followed. The sheep path
leading up the river to the road followed close the edge of the cliff,
where a false step by the horse would mean death to both horse and rider.
But Dorothy feared not, or knew not, the danger, and I caught her ever
whispered cry,--"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy, on." Ashamed to fall behind,
yet fearing to ride at such a pace on such a path, I urged my horse
forward. He was a fine, strong, mettlesome brute, and I succeeded in
keeping the girl's dim form in sight. The moon, which was rapidly sinking
westward, still gave us light through rifts in the black bank of floating
clouds, else that ride over the sheep path by the cliff would have been
our last journey in the flesh.

Soon we reached the main road turning southward. It was a series of rough
rocks and mudholes, and Dorothy and Dolcy shot forward upon it with the
speed of the tempest, to undo, if possible, the evil which a dozen words,
untimely spoken, had wrought. I urged my horse until his head was close by
Dolcy's tail, and ever and anon could I hear the whispered cry,--"On,
Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy, sweet Dolcy, good Dolcy; on, my pet, on."

No word was spoken between Dorothy and me; but I could hear Dolcy panting
with her mighty effort, and amid the noise of splashing water and the
thud, thud, thud of our horses' hoofs came always back to me from
Dorothy's lips the sad, sad cry, full of agony and longing,--"On, Dolcy,
on; on Dolcy, on."

The road we took led us over steep hills and down through dark,
shadow-crowded ravines; but up hill, down hill, and on the level the
terrible girl before me plunged forward with unabated headlong fury until
I thought surely the flesh of horse, man, and woman could endure the
strain not one moment longer. But the horses, the woman, and--though I say
it who should not--the man were of God's best handiwork, and the cords of
our lives did not snap. One thought, and only one, held possession of the
girl, and the matter of her own life or death had no place in her mind.

When we reached the cross-road where I was to leave her, we halted while I
instructed Dorothy concerning the road she should follow from that point
to Rutland, and directed her how to proceed when she should arrive at the
castle gate. She eagerly listened for a moment or two, then grew
impatient, and told me to hasten in my speech, since there was no time to
lose. Then she fearlessly dashed away alone into the black night; and as I
watched her fair form fade into the shadows, the haunting cry came faintly
back to me,--"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy on," and I was sick at heart. I was
loath to leave her thus in the inky gloom. The moon had sunk for the
night, and the clouds had banked up without a rift against the hidden
stars; but I could give her no further help, and my life would pay the
forfeit should I accompany her. She had brought the evil upon herself. She
was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain. She was fulfilling her
destiny. She was doing that which she must do: nothing more, nothing less.
She was filling her little niche in the universal moment. She was a part
of the infinite kaleidoscope--a fate-charged, fate-moved, fragile piece of
glass which might be crushed to atoms in the twinkling of an eye, in the
sounding of a trump.

After leaving Dorothy I rode across the country and soon overtook the
yeoman guard whom I joined unobserved. Then I marched with them, all too
rapidly to suit me, to Rutland. The little army had travelled with greater
speed than I had expected, and I soon began to fear that Dorothy would not
reach Rutland Castle in time to enable its inmates to escape.

Within half an hour from the time I joined the yeomen we saw the dim
outlines of the castle, and Sir William St. Loe gave the command to hurry
forward. Cecil, Sir William, Sir George, and myself rode in advance of the
column. As we approached the castle by the road leading directly to the
gate from the north, I saw for a moment upon the top of the hill west of
the castle gate the forms of Dorothy and Dolcy in dim silhouette against
the sky. Then I saw them plunge madly down the hill toward the gate. I
fancied I could hear the girl whispering in frenzied hoarseness,--"On,
Dolcy, on," and I thought I could catch the panting of the mare. At the
foot of the hill, less than one hundred yards from the gate, poor Dolcy,
unable to take another step, dropped to the ground. Dolcy had gone on to
her death. She had filled her little niche in the universe and had died at
her post Dorothy plunged forward over the mare's head, and a cry of alarm
came from my lips despite me. I was sure the girl had been killed. She,
however, instantly sprang to her feet. Her hair was flying behind her and
she ran toward the gate crying: "John, John, fly for your life!" And then
she fell prone upon the ground and did not rise.

We had all seen the mare fall, and had seen the girl run forward toward
the gates and fall before reaching them. Cecil and Sir William rode to the
spot where Dorothy lay, and dismounted.

In a moment Sir William called to Sir George:--

"The lady is your daughter, Mistress Dorothy."

"What in hell's name brings her here?" cried Sir George, hurriedly riding
forward, "and how came she?"

I followed speedily, and the piteous sight filled my eyes with tears. I
cannot describe it adequately to you, though I shall see it vividly to the
end of my days. Dorothy had received a slight wound upon the temple, and
blood was trickling down her face upon her neck and ruff. Her hair had
fallen from its fastenings. She had lost her hat, and her gown was torn in
shreds and covered with mud. I lifted the half-conscious girl to her feet
and supported her; then with my kerchief I bound up the wound upon her
temple.

"Poor Dolcy," she said, almost incoherently, "I have killed her and I have
failed--I have failed. Now I am ready to die. Would that I had died with
Dolcy. Let me lie down here, Malcolm,--let me lie down."

I still held her in my arms and supported her half-fainting form.

"Why are you here?" demanded Sir George.

"To die," responded Dorothy.

"To die? Damned nonsense!" returned her father.

"How came you here, you fool?"

"On Dolcy. She is dead," returned Dorothy.

"Were you not at Haddon when we left there?" asked her father.

"Yes," she replied.

"Did you pass us on the road?" he asked.

"How came you here?" Sir George insisted.

"Oh, I flew hither. I am a witch. Don't question me, father. I am in no
temper to listen to you. I warn you once and for all, keep away from me;
beware of me. I have a dagger in my bosom. Go and do the work you came to
do; but remember this, father, if harm comes to him I will take my own
life, and my blood shall be upon your soul."

"My God, Malcolm, what does she mean?" asked Sir George, touched with fear
by the strength of his daughter's threat. "Has she lost her wits?"

"No," the girl quickly responded, "I have only just found them."

Sir George continued to question Dorothy, but he received no further
response from her. She simply held up the palm of her hand warningly
toward him, and the gesture was as eloquent as an oration. She leaned
against me, and covered her face with her hands, while her form shook and
trembled as if with a palsy.

Cecil and Sir William St. Loe then went toward the gate, and Sir George
said to me:--

"I must go with them. You remain with Doll, and see that she is taken
home. Procure a horse for her. If she is unable to ride, make a litter, or
perhaps there is a coach in the castle; if so, take possession of it. Take
her home by some means when we return. What, think you, could have brought
her here?"

I evaded the question by replying, "I will probably be able to get a coach
in the castle, Sir George. Leave Dorothy with me."

Soon, by the command of Sir William, the yeomen rode to the right and to
the left for the purpose of surrounding the castle, and then I heard Cecil
at the gates demanding:--

"Open in the name of the queen."

"Let us go to the gates," said Dorothy, "that we may hear what they say
and see what they do. Will they kill him here, think you?" she asked,
looking wildly into my face.

The flambeaux on the castle gate and those which the link-boys had brought
with them from Haddon were lighted, and the scene in front of the gate was
all aglow.

"No, no, my sweet one," I answered, "perhaps they will not kill him at
all. Certainly they will not kill him now. They must try him first."

I tried to dissuade her from going to the gates, but she insisted, and I
helped her to walk forward.

When Dorothy and I reached the gates, we found that Cecil and Lord Rutland
were holding a consultation through the parley-window. The portcullis was
still down, and the gates were closed; but soon the portcullis was
raised, a postern was opened from within, and Sir William entered the
castle with two score of the yeomen guards.

Sir George approached and again plied Dorothy with questions, but she
would not speak. One would have thought from her attitude that she was
deaf and dumb. She seemed unconscious of her father's presence.

"She has lost her mind," said Sir George, in tones of deep trouble, "and I
know not what to do."

"Leave her with me for a time, cousin. I am sure she will be better if we
do not question her now."

Then Dorothy seemed to awaken. "Malcolm is right, father. Leave me for a
time, I pray you."

Sir George left us, and waited with a party of yeomen a short distance
from the gate for the return of Sir William with his prisoners.

Dorothy and I sat upon a stone bench, near the postern through which Sir
William and the guardsmen had entered, but neither of us spoke.

After a long, weary time of waiting Sir William came out of the castle
through the postern, and with him came Mary Stuart. My heart jumped when I
saw her in the glare of the flambeaux, and the spirit of my dead love for
her came begging admission to my heart. I cannot describe my sensations
when I beheld her, but this I knew, that my love for her was dead past
resurrection.

Following Mary came Lord Rutland, and immediately following his Lordship
walked John. When he stepped through the postern, Dorothy sprang to her
feet and ran to him with a cry, "John, John!"

He looked at her in surprise, and stepped toward her with evident intent
to embrace her. His act was probably the result of an involuntary impulse,
for he stopped before he reached the girl.

[Illustration]

Sir George had gone at Sir William's request to arrange the guards for
the return march.

Dorothy and John were standing within two yards of each other.

"Do not touch me," cried Dorothy, "save to strike me If you will. The evil
which has come upon you is of my doing. I betrayed you to the queen."

I saw Mary turn quickly toward the girl when she uttered those words.

"I was insane when I did it," continued Dorothy. "They will take your
life, John. But when you die I also shall die. It is a poor reparation, I
know, but it is the only one I can make."

"I do not understand you, Dorothy," said John. "Why should you betray me?"

"I cannot tell you," she answered. "All I know is that I did betray you
and I hardly know how I did it. It all seems like a dream--like a fearful
monster of the night. There is no need for me to explain. I betrayed you
and now I suffer for it, more a thousand-fold than you can possibly
suffer. I offer no excuse. I have none. I simply betrayed you, and ask
only that I may die with you."

Then was manifest in John's heart the noblest quality which God has given
to man-charity, strengthened by reason. His face glowed with a light that
seemed saintlike, and a grand look of ineffable love and pity came to his
eyes. He seemed as if by inspiration to understand all that Dorothy had
felt and done, and he knew that if she had betrayed him she had done it at
a time when she was not responsible for her acts. He stepped quickly to
the girl's side, and caring naught that we all should see him, caught her
to his breast. He held her in his arms, and the light of the flambeaux
fell upon her upturned face.

"Dorothy," he said, "it matters not what you have done; you are my only
love. I ask no explanation. If you have betrayed me to death, though I
hope it will not come to that evil, you did not do it because you did not
love me."

"No, no, John, you know that," sobbed the girl.

"I do know it, Dorothy; I know all that I wish to know. You would not
intentionally bring evil upon me while you love me."

"Ah, that I do, John; only God knows how deeply, how desperately. My love
was the cause--my love was my curse--it was your curse."

"Do not weep, Dorothy," said John, interrupting her. "I would that I could
take all your suffering upon myself. Do not weep."

Dorothy buried her face upon his breast and tears came to her relief. She
was not alone in her weeping, for there stood I like a very woman, and by
my side stood rough old Sir William. Tears were coursing down the bronzed
cheek of the grand old warrior like drops of glistening dew upon the
harrowed face of a mountain rock. When I saw Sir William's tears, I could
no longer restrain my emotions, and I frankly tell you that I made a
spectacle of myself in full view of the queen's yeoman guard.

Sir George approached our little group, and when he saw Dorothy in John's
arms, he broke forth into oaths and stepped toward her intending to force
her away. But John held up the palm of his free hand warningly toward Sir
George, and drawing the girl's drooping form close to his breast he spoke
calmly:--

"Old man, if you but lay a finger on this girl, I will kill you where you
stand. No power on earth can save you."

There was a tone in John's voice that forced even Sir George to pause.
Then Sir George turned to me.

"This is the man who was in my house. He is the man who called himself
Thomas. Do you know him?"

Dorothy saved me from the humiliation of an answer.

She took one step from John's side and held him by the hand while she
spoke.

"Father," she said, "this man is Sir John Manners. Now you may understand
why he could not seek my hand openly, and you also know why I could not
tell you his name." She again turned to John, and he put his arm about
her. You can imagine much better that I can describe Sir George's fury. He
snatched a halberd from the hands of a yeoman who was standing near by and
started toward John and Dorothy. Thereupon the hard old warrior, Sir
William St. Loe, whose heart one would surely say was the last place where
sentiment could dwell, performed a little act of virtue which will balance
many a page on the debtor side of his ledger of life, he lifted his sword
and scabbard and struck Sir George's outstretched hand, causing the
halberd to fall to the ground.

"Don't touch the girl," cried Sir William, hoarsely.

"She is my daughter," retorted Sir George, who was stunned mentally as
well as physically by Sir William's blow.

"I care not whose daughter she is," returned Sir William. "You shall not
touch her. If you make but one other attempt, I will use my blade upon
you."

Sir William and John had been warm friends at London court, and the old
captain of the guards quickly guessed the true situation when he saw
Dorothy run to John's arms.

"Sir, you shall answer for this," said Sir George, angrily, to Sir
William.

"With pleasure," returned Sir William. "I will give you satisfaction
whenever you wish it, save this present time. I am too busy now."

Blessed old Sir William! You have been dead these many winters; and were I
a priest, I would say a mass for your soul gratis every day in the year.

"Did the girl betray us?" asked Queen Mary.

No one answered her question. Then she turned toward Sir John and touched
him upon the shoulder. He turned his face toward her, signifying that he
was listening.

"Who is this girl?" Mary demanded.

"My sweetheart, my affianced wife," John answered.

"She says she betrayed us," the queen responded.

"Yes," said John.

"Did you trust her with knowledge of our presence in Rutland?" Mary
demanded angrily.

"I did," he answered.

"You were a fool," said Mary.

"I know it," responded John.

"You certainly bear her no resentment for her treason," said Mary.

"I certainly do not," quietly answered John. "Her suffering is greater
than mine. Can you not see that it is?"

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